


Bodyweight

by atticeyes



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Child Abuse, Dark, M/M, hurt!bucky, not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atticeyes/pseuds/atticeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky though a lot about heaven when he was younger; milky soft cotton clouds, angels with pale arms and red cheeks, soft hugs, air like mist and no hard edges. He saw heaven in the glitter in his mother´s Saturday-dress, in the silver-rocks at the bottom of the lake, in the too-cold, too-blue january sunsets. He once saw God in the cement-name of a child. He had a glass-angel in his pocket, carried it like a crusifix, and he could sometimes feel something holy when the light shined through it just right. He saw religion in all things beautiful, but he had never seen something as beautiful as Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleCabin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleCabin/gifts).



> Huge thank you to my beta apollo-and-r for being very helpful and making this fic a lot better! If you find any mistakes in this fic, they´re mine because when I say I´m done writing, I´m actually never quite done. Also, a big thank you to LittleCabin for being an endless source of love, compliments and inspiration. I truly adore you!
> 
> This fic is dark. It contains abuse, which is not explicitly portrayed in any way, but it´s still very much there. It´s a lot of hurt and angst, and not so much comfort, but I do feel the need to say that Steve is very much in character in this fic, and not at all abusive. 
> 
> If you find any mistakes, or want me to add any tags, feel free to point it out! 
> 
> And if you want to talk to me, you can find me at attiiceyes.tumblr.com!
> 
> (Title taken from the song "Bodyweight" by Annie Eve).

_Love is when someone holds a gun against your bottom lip & says suck_

_it´s a delusional cult-leader bestfriend-daddy & the marks you didn't know you had_

_it´s early mornings waking up in the same room_

_fake-windows goodbye-fucks & I´ll take you out soons _

_it´s when he buries the first man who ever chocked you with his spit &_

_wants to make love to you on top it´s autumn killings hard ground dry air & _

_boys underground rotten when they´re found_

_it´s age gaps so wide you´ll never fit inside circles so tight he´ll draw you a new one_

_feeling like tearing fabric_

_it´s fucked up but what isn’t?_

 

**Part 1 - Bucky**

 

Shame is such a powerful feeling.

 

It sleeps like a rock in his stomach, hard edges eating into his insides and fills his mouth with words he doesn´t spill. It keeps him on silent toes, keeps his mouth shut. It makes him powerless.

*

He likes running. He likes to climb and crawl and pretend that the trees are alive around him, big and protective. He likes that there never is anyone else in the woods but him. He finds lakes and ponds and small streaks of rivers, all icy and prickly around his hot hands. His mother doesn´t like the woods. “Now I´ll have to wash your pants,” she sighs, taking in the dirt on Bucky´s clothes with her sharp eyes, already dragging him towards the laundry-room so she can tear them off.  He´s shushed away to his room and it´s almost a blessing. His room is light blue, like most his days during the summer. Hot and sticky days spent out in the fields, in the depths of the woods behind their house, on the outskirts of the icy lake. Long and lonely, filled with waiting. He finds sticks, peels them bare. He eats in silence with his mother, tries to stop the rattle in his legs and the static behind his eyes.

 

Time is an abstract concept but he knows that the weeks his father is away is never long enough. He always comes back, coat like a flag and suit sharp like the metal in Bucky´s stomach. He´ll receive books and toys and colorful boxes from countries and places he can´t even pronounce the names of. He tries to lose himself in them, but he knows they´re not for free.

 

*

 

He always sleep curled up against the wooden planks of his bedroom, sheets tucked in under his feet and head beside the pillow. He makes himself small, like a hedgehog, spikes pointy. In the end he thinks that the sharp ends on his back are stabbing his insides instead of protecting him, because his father always comes and it always feels like something deep inside him is tearing. It´s easy to untangle him, to stroke his hair and make him quiet. It´s easy for Bucky to just let it happen, to float away. He´s the soft bird sleeping in the trees those nights. He´s outside, wings shielding his small body, and he´s not even a part of the mold and the rot that´s growing in the walls. His wings are shining, black and white, and soon - when he´s a little bigger - he´ll fly away.

 

*

 

_«I´m sorry, this … it won´t happen again. I promise.”_

*

 

His head is an ocean, deep and blue and endless. It´s filled with hungry sharks and shipwrecks, and some days it´s hard to keep his head over the crocked surface. It´s hard to not let the creatures drag him down and swallow him. He has water in his ears and it´s like there´s a constant hissing in his head. It´s overwhelming and it makes his head hurt, but when he sits on the living-room floor, saltwater roaring, his parents sits as still as ever. He doesn’t think they can hear it.

 

*

 

_“I´m always watching”,_ the coat whispers to him. _“I see you”._ It hangs on the basement door at day, and floats like a mist on his bedroom floor at night, when Bucky´s too tired of waiting. But the coat is not always a coat, because sometimes it has spikes like knives and long claws and it´s looming over him. It´s dark and _huge,_ and when it opens it´s arms it´s wings. It stands on his bed and Bucky doesn´t know if it´s going to protect him or devour him. Some days the coat is just fabric as it hangs limp and lifeless on the door, while some nights it´s alive. It tells him to lock his door, to use the big knife in the kitchen. It whispers to him about blood. Bucky looks out in the garden at the small bird, now sound asleep in the decaying grass, but the coat is right there beside him. It´s big and lumpy and ugly, murmuring, and the sun is setting.

 

*

 

He starts wearing glasses the same week he starts school. He has his growing hair and thick lenses to shield himself from the other children, but some of them still manages to crawl in under his skin.  _»They see,»_ The coat whispers behind him.  _«They know»._

_They can´t see me,_ he wants to say. Because he never opens his mouth unless it´s by force and what exists in the night never exists in the daylight, right?

Their eyes prickle in his neck, makes his hands clammy. He doesn´t know if  _they_ know, but the coat seldom lies.

 

*

 

It doesn´t stop.  His father is still coming back even after Bucky starts growing. Even when he´s not twelve-year-old-soft anymore, he still comes. Because his hair is still long and easy to hold on to. Because his arms are weak and his skin easily bruise. Because it´s easy to steal softness from someone who doesn´t know how to push, instead of seeking it from the cold. Because Bucky learned the meaning of the words “yes” and “no” but the words have no meaning when they leave his mouth.

 

*

 

When he´s nineteen, he moves to the city. He spreads his arms out like the coat does when it´s dark, ready to jump. He doesn´t know what the fall will do to his body, but he knows he can´t stay. The last night is the worst he can remember. He doesn´t know if his father is punishing himself or him, and he can´t block anything of it out. Because the bird doesn´t sleep anymore, and the coat is just above them, keeping it´s sharp gaze fixed on Bucky´s face. So Bucky thinks about taking the bus, opening his own door and keeping still in the center of a city he´s never been to before. He doesn´t realize he´s crying before the other man pulls him close, shushes hm. «I´ll visit you», he murmurs, sending cold ice down Bucky´s back.  _No,_ he thinks.  _You don´t have to. I don´t want you to._

He leaves in the morning, the new keys burning in his pocket and something else burning in his chest. His mother nods him off, not cold, but not warm either. She´s nothing, he thinks, just like he is. They´re both shells of  _could-be´s_ and  _should-have´s,_ but she´s the one who taught him to close his eyes and for that he´ll never forgive her. 

 

*

 

He doesn´t see the coat after that. His apartment is white, almost empty and it allows him to breathe with lungs he imagines must be coal-like now. Maybe he doesn´t need it anymore. Maybe it has found someone else like him, maybe even here in the city. Someone small and pathetic who´s afraid of knocking. Here he´s not afraid of someone knocking on his bedroom-door at night anymore, and maybe the coat is just a coat again.

 

*

 

He stumbles into Brock after four months. His leg is burning from the hot coffee he spilled, and when he clumsily tries to apologize, his face is burning even worse. But the other man just laughs; all smiles and teeth and charm, and Bucky doesn´t know how to say no. 

Bucky feels shy, doesn´t know how to answer Brock´s question when he wants to know about him later that week.  _I´m nobody,_ he thinks. And he can´t for the love of God understand why Brock wants to spend time with him. It´s confusing and frustrating, because Bucky can´t even get a sentence out without stuttering and he suddenly feels very small again. He tries not to think too much about how his tongue feels dry, but this is the first time he´s ever been the center of someone’s attention like this and it´s new and difficult and overwhelming. But Brock lures it out, small bits and pieces he never thought could be of interest to anybody. Brock is genuinely interested and before Bucky really realizes what´s going on, he´s hooked. 

 

*

 

Brock calls him pretty. He gently tugs at his hair, strokes his neck and Bucky doesn´t know what to do or say. When Brock kisses him, he thinks he´s kind of flying, but Brock is strong and all Bucky can do is stay. Keep still, kiss back. It´s not that bad, he thinks. And Brock is warm. 

 

*

 

When he´s seen Brock for almost 135 days straight, been kissed three times and fucked once, he believes it´s serious. It feels serious, in the way his stomach flutters and how the other man will make him blush hard, almost like he´d gotten slapped. When he opens his door for Brock one day, and is instantly slammed against the wall so hard and fast all of the oxygen in his lungs is knocked right out of him, he realizes it´s really serious. He doesn´t talk to people, doesn´t look at them unless he absolutely has to, but Brock doesn´t believe him. “You´re too pretty not to talk to other people”, he hisses, grip like hot iron around his arms. “Don´t think I don´t see. I always see”.

 

*

 

It´s good and it´s bad, but there is never an end. It´s how it is, and if he just doesn´t step on the lines, his night will be quiet. But the mist on his bedroom floor is back, and he doesn´t think it´s a good sign.

He wakes up one morning in February, face tender and bruised like the universe and the ghost of a coat behind him.

 

*

 

It doesn´t look as bad, he thinks, glasses and hair covering most of it. Nobody knows him, anyway, it´s not like people will ask him questions. But they do.

The café is empty, except from the blonde man at the counter. He mumbles his order, keeps his face down on his hands and hopes that this place is far enough away from his place. “What´s your name?” the man asks, and Bucky looks up so quick it almost hurts. “W-what?”

There is a hint of a blush on the other man´s face, but he asks again. “Bucky”, Bucky says, not thinking straight. He feels faint and he doesn´t understand the question, really, but it makes his stomach freeze and his neck burn because he´s not supposed to talk to this man. His eyes quickly flicker to the door, to the windows, dread already pooling in his chest. He pays as quick as he can, grabs his coffee when it´s done and runs.

 

*

 

Freedom is nobody knowing his name, white walls and silence so still that he can hear his own blood roaring in his ears. He can´t remember ever having that, because home is a fire and all he´s ever breathed is smoke.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2 – Steve**

_“So I set the house on fire, to explain how I felt”._

Moddi – _Northern Line_

Steve waits. It´s been two weeks and four days since Bucky came in. The days are slowly,  _slowly,_ getting a little brighter for each day, daylight holding on for a little longer and the snow isn´t that heavy when it falls anymore. The café is buzzing, air almost moist and the oxygen leaving the guests´ mouth is nearly fogging up the windows. His days are the same, nothing has really changed, but it still feels like nothing will ever be what it used to. He feels strange and weird and he can´t stop thinking about the encounter.

It´s been two weeks and Steve keeps waiting.

 

*

 

Work is alright. His evenings are manageable.  Read, netflix, sleep. He keeps thinking about Bucky, wondering if this is how people with crushes on celebrities feels like. Because it´s annoying, how that face that´s slowly fading from his memory now keeps popping up, that quiet voice with a slight rasp to it still rings softly in his ears. It´s slightly confusing and very annoying, because the city is big and the other man had looked scared.

 

*

 

Growing up in the countryside and then moving to the city was definitely a big change. Leaving the big house, his parents, his brother and all of his friends was something he´d never imagined himself doing.

“Are you coming home any time soon?” his mother always asks on the phone between holidays, voice pleasant but strained, longing reaching through the line. “Yeah, sure, I´ll … I´ll visit as soon as I can. Work´s a little hectic at the moment, but I think I can squeeze something in”. He hangs up and writes his name on all the available shifts he can find.

 

*

 

He always wanted to draw. He never imagined himself doing it professionally, didn’t really see how his lines and shapes could give him shelter and food, but he wanted to. He thought a lot about maybe studying art, become a teacher maybe. He would draw comics based on Sam´s writing, and they would always joke about creating a children´s book together. They even got as far as outlining the whole ting.

 

 

*

 

Bucky comes into his shop again in late January, snow slowly melting in his already damp hair and cheeks glowing red. When he reaches the counter and glances up at Steve, he stiffens so fast it almost looks like he hit a wall. Steve´s already blushing, but he manages to smooth out his voice as he greets the boy. “What can I make you today?” he asks, trying not to stare. His heart is beating almost violently and he can feel it in his throat. Bucky is looking at the board over his head, eyes squinting behind heavy glasses. “I´ll … i´ll just have a coffee. B-black.”

 

“Are you sitting in here?” Steve asks, already filling a cup. Bucky nods, still not meeting his eyes as he fishes his wallet out from his pocket. Steve is a gentle person, but Bucky´s like a wounded, scared animal in his presence and it makes him feel like a predator. He can feel how Bucky´s aware of his every move, how he immediately shrinks when he´s handed his coffee. How he doesn´t meet his eyes, ducks his head. His hair is like curtains, hiding his expression as he turns around and hinds himself a table. Steve doesn´t know what to do when Bucky´s so close and he feels this burning, aching deep inside him. His hands are clammy and there is static in his ears, because Bucky is back, but something tells him that this is as close as he´ll ever get to him.

 

*

 

He´s been to the café twice now, and Steve starts to plan. He makes up scenarios, prepares sentences and practices different facial expressions in the mirror. He tries to make his smile warm, pleasant, calming. Tries to speak with nothing but murmuring ease, thinks about ways he can ask Bucky questions in a natural way. But then two weeks goes by, and no matter how kind his eyes look in the mirror the boy is gone. The city is big, Steve thinks again.

It´s been a month now, and the day´s been on the edge of rain the whole day. The clouds are dark and heavy, and Steve can almost hear them creaking as they float by over his head.Barely a second afterthe world turns from waiting silence into roaring, the café door is sliding up and Bucky comes in. A split lip. A bruised cheek-bone. Lilac eyes. His hoodie is slightly damp, and Steve´s just lost his ability to breathe.

 

*

 

He meets up with Natasha. “How do you befriend someone who´s completely unavailable?”

 

“Unavailable how?” she asks, stirring her tea, face already scrunched up in skepticism.

He tries to explain how some eyes can be bruised from the inside, pouty lips, march-blooming cheeks, bird-bone wrists. She sinks into herself for a moment, still as water drops before they fall. “It´s … “ she takes a deep breath. “You should make him come to you. If he doesn´t, you should leave him be.”

“But I don´t think he´s doing so good. I think he might need help.” She nods, face soft but serious. “Make him know he can come to you, then.”

 

*

 

His visits are always rare, unregularly, impossible to keep track of. He never comes in at the same time twice, but it doesn´t really bother Steve. He´s just glad he comes back at all. It´s late this time, just before closing, but Steve welcomes him anyway, coffee already in the making. “It´s ready in a minute,” he explains. Bucky nods, green and yellow now slowly fading around his eye. “Just take a seat, I´ll bring you your coffee.”

 

Bucky fumbles with his wallet. “It´s okay, it´s on the house,” Steve says. Bucky stiffens, almost meeting his eyes. “Thank you.” It´s small, and stupid, but it´s really the least Steve can do for him, but something hard crunches in his stomach at the other man´s confused fear at his gesture.

 

Steve wonders why Bucky comes in. It´s not like their coffee is that good, or cheap. And he never does anything. He just sips his coffee, hood over his head and head slightly bent. Then it hits him; hiding.

 

He hovers beside the table after placing the coffee in front of the other man, the sudden realization still slowly turning around inside his head. “Can I get you something else?” Bucky shakes his head, folding his hands around the steaming cup with a barely there “thank you”. It´s dark outside. It started snowing again last week, and it covers the streets like slush now. It´s black like burned wood from dirt, and Steve takes a deep breath before he sits down.

 

Bucky looks startled, head snapping up at Steve´s brave action. “So…” Steve says, feeling too hot. “How are you?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3 – Bucky**

_“The gun may be the perfect weapon," he said_

_Standing between a rock and a hard place_

_"But a gun is nothing without a bullet," I replied_

_I am my own bullet._

_I live my life perfectly._

_A parabolic arch of meaning, purpose_

_And then there was that time when you stepped on a landmine_

_And I never forgave you_

_And you could feel the entire rise and fall of the Third Reich_

_at your feet._

_Its a wasted life._

-Zero day

Safe is hiding-places. Safe is quiet, undisturbed hours of blankness. Safe is being in a place of _not-being._ The feeling of wool, cotton, clouds, crispy morning-air. It´s blue at noon and nothing at night. It´s blue eyes, soft sweaters, the smell of coffee. It´s soft spoken words and easy question, the there (not quite there) feeling of company. Of being alone with someone, in a weird, but okay, way. He never really got the whole ´understanding people´ thing, and he certainly does not understand Steve when he places himself in front of him like that, open and warm and _right there,_ but he doesn´t regret not fleeing.

* 

After a month he thinks it´s a routine. Coffee, window-seat, foggy glasses and a presence so fierce he can´t ignore it, but it doesn´t bother him. He doesn´t mind. Not when he can see how Steve´s face lights up when he enters the café. Not when he doesn´t have to talk or touch, when he can just sit there with the other man, murmur about his day or his newest found book that he likes. Not when Steve will smile, or sometimes laugh, and never demand a single thing from him. It´s … easy. It´s so easy that the evenings just float, but in a good way. They come and go, tangled into each other, filling black spaces with yellow light and his lungs with light air. He wonders if this is friendship, because it´s nice. It´s really nice.

*

 Some days it scares him absolutely senseless, and he will turn on his heels halfway. Because Steve is – almost – always there, bright and smiling and happy, and Bucky doesn´t really think he´s not welcome. He feels welcome, and he really thinks Steve likes to be with him. But there´s always this small lump of rot in the pit of his stomach, telling him that he´s worthless. _Why would someone like Steve like you? He doesn´t want to be your friend_ , it says in the coat´s voice. _You´re just a customer, of course he´ll be nice to you. He wouldn´t even recognize you on the street._

It talks about Steve, but it never mentions Brock. He almost laughs, because he worries more about what a man thinks about him than getting his head bashed in.

But when the coat starts to murmur, always just barely there, he usually gives in and heads home.

*

 They never talk much about themselves. They don´t talk about what brought them to the city, or what they used to do. Not really what they do now, either. It´s there, though, hovering over them, and Bucky knows Steve will ask one day. So he holds on to the nothings in their conversations, the hope that Steve will understand and never ask anything from him. He likes things as they are. Likes how clean and neat his head feels around Steve. Tries not to think about it, just … feel it.

*

 He buys foundation. It´s light and thick, because Brock likes to drink and doesn´t like sleeping at his own apartment. There will be knocking on his door, and his has always been open. He wonders idly why the night always holds something darker for him. Why he has to fall asleep aching. He also wonders where he would be if he didn´t have a … friend to look forward to. Probably in the exact same place as he is now, but without the foundation.

*

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Steve asks one day, out of nowhere. “Boyfriend?” The question burns, sudden and raw and it hits him unguarded. He manages a small hum, not looking up from his book. He blinks a few times, allows himself to ask the other man the same question. “No,” Steve says. “Never really had someone like that. I wish I had, though.”

Bucky can feel how his own eyes flickers, how his nervousness manifests itself physically. Bucky´s not sure, but it sounds like hinting.

* 

Being with Brock is manageable. It´s falling asleep at dawn, sudden and sharp noises, heart in his throat, but it´s also gentle hands around his ribs, low laugher and cheek-kisses. These days it´s mostly fists, but even they can feel gentle after a while.

 

Until they´re not.

* 

He doesn´t remember how it started, what set him off this time. All he knows is that his head is light, and there´s too much white light filling his sight. His arm feels weird and his face is damp.

It´s early, way too early, so he sits just outside, head under his hoodie and hair tickling his face, waiting. He realizes then, as he focuses on how completely and absolutely numb he feels, just how used he´s gotten to not feeling like himself. He isn´t himself, actually. He never was. He´s not a person at all, and he cries then. Not for what happened, but for that someone he could have been. For the Bucky who never got out and who started decaying inside him when he was eight.

 

* 

“Bucky?”

 

His shoulders are covered in a thin layer of snow, and his toes are completely stiff from the cold. Steve doesn´t ask any questions, just hauls him up and supports him as they start to walk down the street, away from the café. He takes him into a building, up an elevator, inside an apartment. The other man dumps a pile of clothes in his arms, steers him towards the bathroom. “You should take a hot shower. I´ll make some food.”

 

There´s blood in his hair, sticky-dried on his thighs and his wrists are sore. His arm is still weird, but the pain is dull, distant. His hair is sticking wetly to his neck as he emerges from the bathroom, and even though it still hangs down, covering most of his face, he feels too exposed. Steve looks shell-shocked, so he moves his gaze to the floor. “Bucky,” he breathes, slowly walking towards him. “Y-you … I …”

 

“Sorry.” The pants are pooling around his feet and the sweater is way too big, hanging off his shoulders. They´re warm, though. “You have nothing to apologize for. Stay. Please. For as long as you want.”

 

It´s too much, and not at all what Bucky was after. He´s not sure what he´s really after, but all he manages to think is that Steve is safe and Brock is in his apartment.

*

 The room is light brown, and the pale morning light turns into gold as it shine through the yellow curtains. The sheets are warm, soft cotton and for a moment, a whole, blissful moment, Bucky´s head is completely empty. He starts to panic just as Steve opens the bedroom door. Bucky feels haunted and wrong and there´s something screaming at him. He´s fucked. He´s basically dead. This was a mistake. He fucked up, and now there´s a big crater in front of him, wide and gaping like a shark´s mouth and he can´t see the bottom, but he knows it´s there.

 

“Bucky, hey, you´re okay. You´re in my apartment, I won´t hurt you.”

 

He shakes his head, squeaks; “Brock,” before he tries to dodge his way past the taller man. “Hey, look, just … hang on for a second. Is Brock your … boyfriend?”

 

Bucky doesn´t understand why it matters. He has to get home. He has to tell Brock that-

 

He has to apologize _._ Tell him how sorry he is. He can already hear Brock in his ear, low and terrifying. _“You’re fucking_ sorry? _I´ll make you sorry, bitch!”_ But he´ll be okay. He always makes it out okay. Right?

 

Steve seems to be able to sense what´s going on, because he tells Bucky, as gently as he can, that “If he´s not treating you right, you don´t owe him a damn thing. Not a single, goddamn thing, Bucky. You should leave him. You don´t deserve this.”

 

Bucky flinches away from his feather-touch. He can´t put words to it, doesn´t know how the logic in his head is built up, but something tells him that yes, he _does_ deserve this. This is his life. This is how love works for him. Keeping low-life men alive by being nothing but obedience, holding his breath and keeping still. And it will kill him one day. It´s not something he has consciously thought about before, but he realizes that it´s been carved into his bones for years. It´s just how it is.

*

 He goes back after three days. Three days of distant silence. Of warm food, hot tea and a soft blanket around his legs. Of endless _“You alright there, Buck?”_ and _“Can I get you something?”´s_. He sleeps in Steve´s bed and Steve sleeps in the room down the hall. The second night he stayed up for hours, waiting for the other man to knock on the door, but the night had been quiet and completely still like his body. Unmoving, dark blue, pale streetlights like a hymn. When he finally had fallen asleep, absolutely drenched in exhaustion, it had been in confusion and a small, but growing fear, for what Steve would do.

 

When he locks himself into his apartment later that third day, it feels like he´s invading a crime scene. There´s dust floating in the air, walls white and bare and Brock is gone. He doesn´t know what to do. Steve´s waiting for him, he knows that. And he will probably come back and look for him if he stays too long. _“You don´t deserve this.”_ Brock feels like a muted dream. Like something bad in the back of his throat, the white in his fathers eyes. The other man loves him like their galaxy will never burn, and it makes Bucky powerless.

*

 He doesn´t even try to explain or apologize. The coat has been with him all morning. It´s not really _there_ anymore _,_ but the ghost of a feeling is still a feeling in some way. And even though it has been fading for years, paling for each month, the feeling of it has remained. It´s like he can see the coat- _not-a-coat´s_ eyes, unblinking and constantly fixed on him, and they´re filling Bucky with dread. It´s too soon, he thinks. But his body is caging him, and he can´t yell at it to move. To run. When Brock finally comes home, opening his door with his own key, it´s stinging hot breaths, the feeling of endless Sundays and he´s floating for real this time. But he tells him. The words leaves his mouth without his permission, but it´s what he wants. He´s tired. It doesn´t feel like he has a choice, never in his life has he felt like he could choose when it comes to this, but he tells him. Borrows Steve´s words as Brock is towering over him, bigger than ever and eyes promising him the end he´s been waiting for for weeks now. “You don´t deserve this?” Brock repeats, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Damn right you don´t deserve this. I should kill you, you little slut.”

*

The end isinevitably. It´s acid from a car-crash, the feeling of losing your first tooth and the curtains from your childhood home that will haunt you forever. The end is blurry and painful and for a small moment Bucky feels angry. He never liked stealing, and people have taken enough now. But he can´t keep his own things if he doesn´t fight for them, and he realizes, lying on the floor with copper in his mouth, that it´s just a little too late now.The apartment is growing faint, edges blurry and the walls are all he can see. White as winter clouds. He always liked white. He feels like he´s watching a movie in slow motion, and he feels drowsy. Bucky though a lot about heaven when he was younger; milky soft cotton clouds, angels with pale arms and red cheeks, soft hugs, air like mist and no hard edges. He saw heaven in the glitter in his mother´s Saturday-dress, in the silver-rocks at the bottom of the lake, in the too-cold, too-blue january sunsets. He once saw God in the cement-name of a child. He had a glass-angel in his pocket, carried it like a crusifix, and he could sometimes feel something holy when the light shined through it just right. He saw religion in all things beautiful, but he had never seen something as beautiful as Steve. Lying there, feeling how his body is aching to keep his blood inside him, he sees his face. Eyes blue like the bottom of the sea at a sunny day and face close enough for him to lift his arm and touch his cheek. Steve is glowing, bright and golden and he´s so beautful it hurts. Bucky thinks dying is okay.

 


End file.
